


the more that you follow me, the more i get lost

by liamnoel



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex, all explicit sex takes place between people 16+, but there are quite a few mentions of other underage sexual activity, noel is a goddamn mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 07:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamnoel/pseuds/liamnoel
Summary: He's stronger than the wallsYou tried to build around himTo dumb and dumbfound him.1984-1989





	the more that you follow me, the more i get lost

**Author's Note:**

> i'm very sick lately, more and more every day and i think it's infecting my mind. this story's fucked up and i'm sorry for writing it.
> 
> i'm trying as hard as i can to finish a couple more chapters on my other work. i am not completely sure of the details yet, but it's likely i won't be around for at least 6 months starting in march, maybe almost a year.
> 
> title from _unbilotitled_ by babyshambles

The first time he’s waiting in your dreams, you’re only seventeen. You wake up shaking and sick, images still staining your eyelids – you’d seen yourself, back against the wall, trousers undone – and Liam pressed up against your body, teasing hand shoved inside your boxers. Caressing you _there._

(That wasn’t Liam, though, you remind yourself. For _years_ you have to remind yourself of that. He’s just a kid, still, doesn’t fuckin’ want these disgusting things, God, probably wouldn’t even know what any of it means yet. You didn’t think you wanted them, either. Not until his pink lips found their way inside your soul and started haunting you like this.)

He’s _twelve_ , for God’s sake – he still cries when he skins his knees and you are filled with dread, wondering if the whole world can read your mind; if the police are here already to arrest you for the things your subconscious had begged for against your will.

You can’t even glance at his sleeping body in the other bed as you pull your shoes and coat on and rush downstairs, into the chilly November morning.

It’s only nine in the morning and you wander around aimlessly for hours upon hours, smoking too many cigarettes, fingers and nose frozen solid. But it’s fine – better than feeling all the heat in your body, isn’t it. You want it gone. You’d be content to freeze to death if it only meant you’d never have to think about your little brother again.

Once the afternoon is blooming you nick a liter of whiskey and two packs of cigarettes from the shop and meet up briefly with a friend of a friend, spending all your extra money on coke. You don’t need money, now, anyway; your stomach’s still churning so hard you never want to eat again.

After you’ve downed half the bottle, you stash it in the inside pocket of your bulky parka and go to the pub, straight to the back, sniffing up four too-large lines off the back of the toilet. You like cocaine – _really_ like it – but you’re new to it, still. Only tried it first six months ago; only started buying it in the last three.

It makes you feel so good. Like you’re in control.

But the whiskey sure doesn’t and it’s not long before you’re dragged roughly by the elbow and shoved out the door, after mouthing off to some cunt who spilled a bit of his pint on you. You’d nearly punched him.

You can’t help it. You want so, so badly to have your head smashed in, nose bloodied, every fucking bone in your body broken just for daring to think of Liam the way you had.

It’s only nine in the evening when you pass out in the park near your old house, under the hollow pine tree you and your brothers had played in when you were so much smaller. The ember of your cigarette slowly extinguishes and burns the edges of your index and middle finger slightly as the flames lick briefly on the orange filter, but you’re, miraculously, too far away to feel a thing.

You don’t dream.

**※※※**

 “I kissed Michelle today!”

“’s that right?” You’re barely paying attention to the kid, trying to play along to Johnny Marr’s jangly riffs from the record on the turntable. Liam won’t leave you alone, though, bouncing down onto the bed next to you, all dirt-covered jeans and lanky growing-pain legs.

“Yeah, man.” He shoves the neck of your guitar away a bit and climbs over your thighs, barely even touching you, the guitar crammed between your bodies. You try to ignore every single thought in your head, because this isn’t – it isn’t anything. “Don’t ya wanna know how it was?”

“Get off me.” You shove him away and he tumbles down onto the carpet, laughing.

“Well, y’wanna know, Noel? Huh?”

You don’t. You really don’t. But he has this terrible way of always, always wearing you down in the end. “Who’s Michelle, then?”

He’s back on your bed again, just sitting down this time. His jeans rub mud onto your blanket and he smirks at you. “You should know her.”

“Why would I?”

“Y’went to school with her for ages, idiot.” The devilish smile on his lips is criminal.

You look up at him then. “What?”

Liam closes his eyes and leans back on his elbows. “She’s sixteen.” His taunting voice just begs you to react.

All the blood in your body turns to ice. You want to scream. Yes, you do know Michelle, in fact, because she was in the year below you at school. She sat behind you in history class one year (when you bothered to turn up at all, that is) and once, she’d told you that you had nice eyes. You were probably still Liam’s age back then.

You want to know if he’s just being a normal fucking stupid kid, or if he did it just to make you jealous.

(You hope it’s just him, that it’s not about you, that you’re selfish and needy and projecting all your own horrible wants onto him. Yet another, darker part of you, one that’s small now but will only grow as Liam grows too, hopes he only did it to show you how he wants someone so much older. Did it because of _you_.)

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He looks dopey and blissed-out, like he’s replaying the kiss in his head right now. “She’s so fuckin’ fit, Noel. Not like all the stupid little girls my age.”

So it is that way. “Liam-”

“It’s like, fuckin’- well, she was experienced, y’know what I mean? Knew what to do… what felt good… like she could _teach_ me-”

That’s enough. More than. “Shut the fuck up, Liam.”

“You’re just jealous I can pull a goddamn grown woman ten fuckin’ times easier than you, you cunt!”

It’s absurd and so immature and you can’t help but laugh. “God, you’re fuckin’ twelve years old, shut the fuck up.”

He bolts up straight, eyebrows drawn together, mouth a thin line. “You shut the fuck up, can’t be fuckin’ happy for me for one second, you dick?!”

“Happy for- I’ll be _happy_ for you when you kiss a bird your own fuckin’ age, Liam, not fuckin’- she’s fuckin’ preying on you, kid, why’d you-”

“Nanananana, I’m Noel, ‘n I’m jealous, ‘cos no bird would let me fuck ‘er till I was fuckin’ sixteen and a half-”

“Fuck you, you’re still a fucking virgin, you don’t know what you’re talking about, you fuckin’- fuckin’ idiotic little kid.”

He licks his lips, and it’s probably innocent even though your body tries to tell you it isn’t. “Not for fuckin’ long. Gonna lose it as soon as I can. Maybe to Michelle.”

You’re angry at everyone and everything but mostly at him – and at your parents for having the nerve to put this insolent little bastard on the Earth in the first place.

He gets up, then, smoothing down his shirt and shoving his feet into his trainers, nearly too small for him, now. “Or maybe to someone your age, huh? If you’re such a _grown-up_. You dick.” He spits the words out at you, burning his eyes into your own, and then he’s left the room, slamming the door before you can get another word in.

Thank fuck it was a bird, for your own sake and for hers – because if you’d found out some sixteen-year-old lad was putting his hands all over your baby brother – skinny and sensitive and _twelve_ – you swear you’d murder the cunt.

**※※※**

It didn’t become a real, present Problem with a capital P – with Liam suddenly so overt and shameless – until a year later.

Months before you proposed to Diane, years before you’d ever put your hands on your brother’s body in ways you weren’t supposed to, he’d started this… game. Well, a game to him. It was a nightmare to you, but the kid seemed to get a real kick out of it.

You’d started going to extreme measures, always checking the closet when you entered your room, even putting the dresser up against the door so Liam can’t get in while you’re fucking Diane. The first time he caught you at it, it might’ve actually been an accident, but he stood there in the doorway with his mouth open wide for a few seconds, watching her take you down her throat, staring at your face, and once you’d registered his presence you yelped _Liam!_ as you tried frantically to cover yourself up. And then, he had to go and do it – fucking _smirk_ with those pink lips and say, “Sorry, you busy?”

(You can’t remember what you dreamt that night, but you’re sure it was about _him_.)

The next morning he sits across the table from you, only in his boxers and dirty white socks, and eats a banana. Too fucking slowly. You refuse to meet his eyes, not once, and wish you could reach over and just crush him in your hands, till he didn’t exist anymore, till you never had to see him again.

You’re not looking, really, you’re not, trying your hardest to focus on the newspaper. But you can still see his lips on the fruit out of the corner of your eye. Gripping it tighter than he needs to, fuck’s sake, kid, you’re supposed to _eat_ it, not – not _this._ There’s a draft coming in from the open window over the sink and you both shiver and God, you can see how hard his nipples are now. Jesus. Your cornflakes are soggy; you haven’t been able to manage a single bite, feeling ready to vomit already.

“Noel.”

Liam waits for a response that’s never going to come. Not today. Waits and waits.

“Fuck you.”

He bites the last piece off and throws the peel in your face as he sulks out of the room.

After that, it only starts happening more and more. It’s no accident. It seems half the goddamn times you end up in your room with a bird – usually Diane, but come on, you’re not perfect – suddenly the bane of your existence is _right there,_ watching so intently.

Just an annoying kid brother, trying to see a girl’s tits? Maybe.

But it doesn’t seem like it.

It’s just – every fucking time, he’s staring at _you_. In your eyes, when you glance up, he’s there. Even when the girl’s naked and you’re fully clothed, he looks at you.

You are so, so afraid that the day will come where you look up and he’s got his hand moving inside his trousers or something; and it chills you to the bone to even consider, because you think you might just break after seeing that. Not right away, obviously, but you’re worried that the second Diane or whoever is out the door, you’d just look back at Liam and then –

Well. You don’t want to think about it. _Lead us not into temptation._

The final straw is when you’re fucking Diane on your bed, unclothed and unblanketed because Liam was _supposed_ to be staying at a mate’s house all night. The noise is sudden and you both startle, hearing the clank of metal against the window. And you want to fucking scream.

Liam, on the rickety ladder, fucking peering through the bit of window the curtain’s not covering. Little pervert. A voyeur.

Eyes tracing the shadows cast by lamplight; fuck, before you heard him and turned around, he’d been gazing at so much of your skin – your legs, your back. Your arse. Bare and exposed, how he’s _never_ supposed to see you.

Fuming in disbelief, you hold his eyes with yours – his growing wider and wider because he knows he’s in for it now – and shake your head slowly for a few seconds before yanking on a pair of sweatpants and storming down the stairs. Liam’s already scrambling down the ladder again and Diane’s whisper-shouting _Wait, Noel, you shouldn’t,_ but you’re already outside, where the streetlights tint the full-moon night a sickly orange.

You slam him up against the bricks on the side of the house, over and over and over again, till he’s sobbing and there’s a trickle of blood, just the slightest bit coming from the back of his head where it’d hit the wall. He’s been growing so quickly lately, but he’s still two inches shorter than you, and you feel a foot taller as you grip his shoulders and treat him like a ragdoll.

When you let him go, taking two steps back – for your own sake more than his, you’ve got to admit – he looks so pathetic and broken you just want to take him in your arms and soothe him, tell him it’s okay, that everything’s fine.

But it’s not. It’s not okay, and _nothing_ is fine.

Part of you really, really wishes he’d just hit you back, that you could get it out that way, all the tension. The touch. Destroying each other, never having to break the law or any sort of moral code, just two more brothers fighting like brothers do. It won’t be long before he’s just as strong as you are, or strong enough to hold his own, at least. But he doesn’t tonight, doesn’t do a thing. It suddenly occurs to you how soaked your upper body is in sweat, from the heat of the night and your unfinished fuck and the way Liam’s shoulders felt underneath your hands. You try to collect your breath while he just stands there, shirt all wrinkled, bottom lip quivering. His eyes don’t leave yours, fluttering under thick tear-soaked eyelashes and you make the mistake of glancing down and he’s hard. Of course he is. You can see it against the leg of his trousers. Fuck.

It’s even more horrifying than you ever thought it’d be when you realize that you are just as turned on as he is.

So you just give him one more threatening, ominous glare before turning and going back inside. You pray that he didn’t look down, couldn’t see how much it affected you – touching him. Having him under your hands, even if it was in hate, not love.

But you know, somehow you just know. He saw.

His shoulderblades bruise deep purple; he sleeps shirtless every night for a week, on his stomach, just to make sure you can see what you’d done to him.

**※※※**

Liam is only thirteen the first time he gets down on his knees in front of you. It’s nearly pitch-black in your bedroom and you’re not exactly sure _why_ he’s doing this, because you’ve never even _kissed_ before – not like that. He’s pouting. You don’t know why the fuck he’s doing this but you feel like every part of you is burning.

"Liam- what the  _fuck_ are you doing?"

He’d learned about blowjobs from a mate, apparently, and wondered what it was like. And for some reason this curiosity just _had_ to involve you, apparently.

“Please, just let me try.”

You can’t. You won’t. You’ve managed not to touch him yet, hadn’t even come close, and you’re _not_ going to give in now.

“Let me suck it, c’mon, Noel.” Stupid fucker, still whining like a kid but wants your goddamn dick down his throat. Not a fucking chance.

Your eyes burn into the little gold band on your left ring finger. It’s just about the only thing that glimmers in the dark room; that and the whites of his eyes. The ring feels wrong, uncomfortable; like it’s irritating your skin. You don’t know why you proposed to Diane – yeah, you loved her. Well. Maybe. But it was _her_ that wanted to get fuckin’ married, not you, you’re only eighteen, for fuck’s sake.

Maybe you just thought having a wife would make it all go away. It was a fucking stupid idea.

“Go back to bed, Liam.” You turn away from him, towards the wall.

“But-”

“No.”

**※※※**

Liam despises being told what to do; but if he was certain you’d always love him, love him in just the way he wants you to, he’d probably do anything you said.

**※※※**

Two months later, he stomps proudly into your room, announcing right in your face how he’d just snogged a bloke and he thinks it was even better than kissing Michelle or Sarah or Jane or Jessica.

Today, you have the good sense to leave the room before Liam can tell you anything else. Like the guy’s name, or how fucking old he is, maybe. Or where he’d touched him, how big and rough his hands were over Liam’s own, still soft and small – God, how you hope it was just one of his stupid scally mates, a lad his own age.

Your mind wants you dead, you think. You don’t have to listen to his teasing questions, no; but inside you, the answers get whispered anyway.

You call Diane and go to hers within the hour; she’s got a flatmate, but anything’s better than your house, now. You take her from behind on her twin-size bed, fucking deep into her cunt with your eyes closed, and wonder how much better her other hole would feel.

Three weeks later you break off the engagement. She seems sad but kind of fucking annoyed too, and a bit relieved. You don’t blame her. You haven’t been more than half-hard with her for a long time.

**※※※**

You can’t seem to get it up for _any_ girl these days. It takes a few months of shame and misplaced lust and suddenly every time you jerk off you find yourself picturing masculine features on an anonymous face, big rough hands working you over, and more and more often, your own hands taking down a zipper and finding something achingly hard waiting for you. And then, one Friday night, on a whim, you try going to one of _those_ pubs.

After an hour of shaking hands and too many G&Ts, you meet a handsome bloke in his early twenties who’s a half-foot taller than you. His hand’s on top of yours and he asks _How old are you, pretty thing?_ before he steals a kiss against your sweaty neck. _I’m twenty._ You’re still nineteen but you don’t really think he would care anyway.

He snogs you against the bricks in the alleyway and asks if you want to come home with him, and you kind of do – you _really_ do, actually. And you know he wants to fuck you, too, go all the way (you know it ‘cos he whispered it in your ear, _That mouth’s so sweet, I wanna hear it fuckin’ scream for me when I shove it in, baby_ ); but despite how much you’re starting to really want it – your cock screams that you _need_ it – you can’t. Not yet. He lets you feel him up through his trousers, though, knows you aren’t ready for more, asks you _are you sure?_ when you take his dick out. You nod. Yes, you’re sure. You’ve never felt someone else’s cock before; it’s thicker than you’d imagined. You palm him with your left hand, just the way you’d do yourself, gasping, nodding quickly when he gets you hard with a steady hand over your jeans. He loves your guitar-callused fingertips even though they barely reach around him the whole way, and it doesn’t take too long before he comes hot and sticky on your hand and the bricks and _fuck_ you’re glad nobody walked by while you were doing that, Jesus fucking Christ.

(It’s quite possible that you’re breathing heavier than he is, now.)

He looks down at you like you’re some sorta mystery, and you don’t make eye contact, but you eat all his cum off your fingers because you don’t want it drying on your jeans. Tastes sweet and bitter and you think you’re officially a stupid queer slag, now, just like the boys who used to get beat up all the time in secondary school. Not that you ever got up to that. But you never cared to stop it happening.

**※※※**

You go to places like this every few weeks for months on end, no matter how much you try to stop. You tell Paul and your mam you’ve got a girlfriend who lives in Ancoats, and that’s why you’re always on the train and out all night, even though you’re really just sneaking round Canal Street in dark shades with your coat pulled up to your ears.

Sometimes you stay over at their flats, now. But if anyone cared to know who you were, you’d probably be getting a reputation as a bit of a tease, because you always get them off but you never put out. Of course, that doesn’t mean you don’t _want_ to.

**※※※**

By the time Liam’s fourteen-almost-fifteen, he’s seriously on the verge of driving you mad, mainly for the way he insists on telling you about each and every one of his sexual experiences. In full detail.

He fucked around with girls, a lot of girls. You tried not to look disinterested when he described how good their cunts tasted, how big their tits were. Your mind was always wandering and when he told you girls loved to have him finger them – _I’m good with me hands –_ you conjure up a mental image against your will. It’s not a cunt that his fingers push into, though, not in your mind. Sometimes when he tells you shit like this you feel like your whole body’s itching and the only fix would be to climb outside your skin.

Liam gets head a lot, according to him. Has done it outside, sometimes, which makes you scoff and you always tell him what a fuckin’ idiot he is, must be desperate if he’ll do it risky like that, but he doesn’t care. _‘s fun, Noel, should try it sometime._ You pretend that he’s inviting you to try it _with_ him and you try not to acknowledge how you’d probably say yes, if that was the only way you could get him on his knees.

His virginity was given to some girl whose name you don’t care to remember, and Liam says her tongue moved too fast in his mouth. She screamed a lot, _yes yes yes_ when he put it in her, apparently. He said he made her come three times before he was finished but you don’t believe him.

(He can’t even recall the color of her eyes, though, or what she was wearing, or anything like that, so you know he didn’t _really_ care.)

“They say my dick’s real good, tha-”

“Shut the fuck up, Liam.”

But things somehow get much worse – well, much _better_ , if you ask your dick about it – when he’s just about to turn fifteen and starts telling you about the _boys_ he’s doing it with.

“Always thought I had the biggest one at school. Was fuckin’ wrong.” He’s so fucking cocky. _No pun intended._

“Imagine that.” You flip through an old edition of Melody Maker. Liam’s on your bed instead of his – seems like he almost always is, lately – but you’re used to this by now so it’s a lot easier to tune him out. You read what Johnny Marr’s favorite bands and TV shows and ice creams are, for the sixth time.

That is, before he tells you, “Yeah, y’wanna know why?” Of course, he gives you no time to respond. “Colin O’Neill, you know ‘im, yeah?”

You’ve seen him around, he’s in Liam’s year at school. Had maybe played football with him at some point. “Sure.”

“Gotta be fuckin’, I dunno. Eight inches, man. Eight and a _half,_ maybe. Barely fuckin’ fit.”

The words on that page you’re still staring at turn into blurs of black ink. “Sorry, _what_?” You must’ve misheard him, your brain is playing tricks on you.

“Thought ‘e was gonna fuckin’ choke me to death with it.”

You’re cold-blooded now. Maybe nothing-blooded. It’s all either run out of your body or collected in your suddenly aching cock. You keep the magazine where it is, at least Liam can’t see how fucked in the head you are.

“I couldn’t get it all the way down me throat, is ‘at normal?” He’s staring at you so curiously with his head tilted just slightly sideways. And he’s not taking the piss – you can always, _always_ read Liam, even when no one else can. He looks like he really, earnestly wants to _learn_ from you.

This presents a problem, though, because Liam doesn’t quite know you the way you know him, but he can pretty much read your mind if he’s got your eyes on his. Which he does.

“C’mon, Noel, you’re me big brother, s’posed to teach me stuff like this.” You really, really doubt that.

“I’m not- I don’t-”

Liam groans and rolls his pretty eyes up at the ceiling. “Fuckin’ liar, what’s the fuckin’ point of lyin’ about that, anyway. I know, right, and _you_ know that _I_ know.”

You’re defeated.

(It makes you a bit sad when you think about it. Liam is fifteen, practically, and who the fuck _else_ is he gonna talk to about this? Not Mam. Not Paul. Not a teacher or a _priest_ , for God’s sake. Usually Liam seems so in control of his little world, but right now, you’re the only one with a lifeline to throw him. You would have done anything for someone like that back when you were his age.)

He’s staring at you expectantly and you realize you’d tuned out what he was saying. “What? Sorry, I- sorry.”

“Was askin’… wha’s the biggest _you’ve_ taken?”

It’s a bit cute the way he plays with a loose thread on his jumper and stares at his legs where they’re crossed on the bed. He’s been inching closer this whole time, you realize, close enough that his knees are resting on your feet. But you don’t move him away. There’s no reason to, not now.

Your heart is beating from the bottom of your stomach, though. “Well, taken- taken _how._ ” _Fuck, should not have said that._

He takes your easy bait real quick, snapping it up with a smile that’s half cunning prankster-Liam and half genuine sweet-Liam. You love and hate both of them. “Meant in your mouth, you daft cunt. But if you’re offerin’ to share some wisdom… ‘bout-”

“No, I’m- no. Not exactly easy to talk about that shit, is it, kid? E’yare, what else did you want to know?"

“Noel. You didn’t even answer my question.” He licks his lips a bit too slowly and they turn cherry popsicle red. “Fuckin’ dick.”

You sit there and stare him in the eyes, and you know by now all that his insults indicate is that he cares so intensely about everything you do that it spills out of him in love; or in hate, if he can’t have what he wants.

It feels better having him hate you than not having him at all.

**※※※**

You think he might be addicted to it, now, to telling you about everything that he does. He fucks girls more often, you know, but he only really tells you about the boys anymore. It’s obvious how jealous he wants you to be; you hope it’s not quite as obvious how much it’s working.

If he was a girl he’d be the school slag. He tells you first how he finds out which of his mates think about lads that way, too, how he tempts them and they fall apart for him. Then how there’s this new boy in his class who stares a lot and how he’d passed the kid a note one day, _meet me in back of the gym after lunch_ , and your stupid kid brother had rubbed him over his trousers next to the football pitch, with a hand over his mouth to cover his moans, until he made a mess in his pants. _Welcome to Manchester._

After that he’d started going to extreme measures to get his fix. Doing things that made you sick to your stomach, that _almost_ made you give in and let him blow you instead, if only to stop him from all this madness. He keeps an eye on the older lads, sees who’s picking on the queer kids, and once he gets ‘em alone, in the toilets or at a party or dripping sweat after a footie match, he says he can get nearly _all_ of them to come in his hand or even his mouth. _I always spit, though, I promise._

(He shouldn’t be promising you _anything_ about spitting, for fuck’s sake.)

“They only beat up the gay boys ‘cos they’re jealous they can’t fuck ‘em, y’know?” He’s on his stomach on his bed, chin in his palms while he makes doe eyes over at you and kicks his legs back and forth, heels hitting his arse every now and then.

You’re not gonna listen to this again, not today. “Y’know, you’re so… desperate.”

He scoffs. “Oh, am I? _You’re_ fuckin’ desperate, man, how many of your boyfriends d’you let put it inside you?”

“Don’t fucking talk like that, you’re fuckin’- you’re fuckin’- you don’t know anything, and besides, you’re my _brother_.”

“You think about it more than _I_ do. Admit it. Your fuckin’ dick is always hard when I’m around-”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, you’re so fucking unbearably stupid-”

“Those lads, they _all_ say I’ve got a nice cock, though – thick, y’know.” You don’t _want_ to know, or you can’t know. Either one.

“Liam, I’m serious, don’t wanna hear this shit anymore.” You’re basically blushing and he can tell; and like fucking always, he’s staring you dead in the face.

The stupid fucker gets a big grin on his face and leans towards you; even from across the room you can feel him on your skin. “What, you _jealous_? Don’t it run in the family?”

You roll your eyes and pretend to be normal and look away.

“Let’s find out, eh?” He lets himself fall backwards, then, on his back with his head sideways and his shiny hair fanned out beneath his head. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Liam.”

“ _Bonding_ , man.” He wiggles his thick eyebrows, hands resting on the waist of his jeans. “C’mon, ain’t you curious?”

God, yes, you are. “No. Are you?”

“Yep.”

“Great. You’re nasty.”

“Oh, yeah, and you _aren’t_ , Mr. Sleeparound? You Canal Street whore, ‘ow many dicks you sucked this week, think _you’re_ so perfect-”

Fuck. Fucking Christ. You don’t even ask how he knows. “ _I’m_ not the one blowing all the school bullies in a toilet stall.” You’re proud of the way your voice doesn’t shake one bit, dripping condescension as if you actually thought Liam was worse than you.

(Of course he wasn’t. He was still a kid. You were too old for this, for _him._ )

He doesn’t even falter, though. “At least _I_ can own up to it. Cunt.”

You drag your hand over your face. “Look, how d’you even- how would _you_ know where I-”

“Y’don’t know everything about me, Noel. Think you’re so fuckin’ smart. An’ I bet I can do it better than you ever could, _definitely_ look better on my knees, right-”

“Jesus, are you- fuck you, you can’t be… you can’t go to-”

He’s laughing. “You retarded or summat? Not _goin’_ there, I jus’ fuckin’ _followed_ you, ‘cos you’re a shady little fucker.” He’s laughing at you and it’s not as bad as it would have been to find out he was somehow frequenting the same pubs as you, but it still burns a bit. “’n’ listen, you’re not as quiet as you think you are when you’re fuckin’ yourself in the bathroom, y’know what I mean.”

“Y’know what, Liam, I’d fuckin’ _love_ it if you never spoke to me again. How ‘bout that?”

“Oh, never. Can’t get rid of me, mate.” He jumps onto your bed and you immediately stand, hovering in the doorway, facing away from him.

“I’m going out.”

“You’re no fun.”

You hear him unbuckling his belt and the zipper coming down and you sigh. “ _Please_ , for the love of God, just use your own bed for that.” You don’t know if he’ll actually do it, but you probably wouldn’t mind one bit if he did.

He laughs and it’s too bubbly and sweet for you to handle. “Thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“I’ll be back later. No need to follow me.”

“Make sure t’ use a condom, yeah? Don’t want ya gettin’ knocked up.”

Well, that’s a bit more typical. You can nearly handle that. “Bye.”

You are eternally grateful that no one else is home when he shouts after you, loud enough to come down the stairs, “ _Mine’s six inches now, y’know, but I’m sure yours is a lot bigger, ain’t it?_ ”

**※※※**

Liam still goes to confession, on the days Mam insists he come to mass with her, but you know he’s not repenting for any of his sins. No, he makes up fake ones; tries to shock the priest worse every week, you know he’s still doing it even as it becomes more and more outlandish.

It’s endearing to you, though – even though he’s usually so fucking honest, more than anyone else you can think of, and you don’t want him becoming a useless liar, like you. But you know he only does it ‘cos that’s what _you_ always did, and of course, it was _you_ who told him how.

**※※※**

After too many anonymous nights letting handsome blokes tell you what to do, and _too_ many dreams of Liam underneath you, almost submissive, you decide to try something new. And just your luck – tonight there’s a lad there at the bar right next to you, drowning in whiskey sours, fucking tragically cute. Perfect soft chestnut hair… blue eyes. His voice is higher than the last guy you had, breathy and sweet and it makes you shiver. He’s eighteen, and you make sure he’s telling the truth, ‘cos he could pass for about two and a half years younger, easily. But he fucks like an adult should – sucks on your tongue like a needy slag and goes down on his knees gladly when you ask all shakily, sucking you off expertly like he’s been doing it daily for years. _Maybe he has._

(You don’t particularly fancy the idea of telling anyone that you like men, and you probably never will. You’re ugly enough, you think, that no one would see you on any other street and think _pretty boy, bet he loves a nice cock._ But this is the type of boy who isn’t quite lucky enough to blend in that way, whose hair and walk and girly tight t-shirt and voice make it quite known just what he is. Though he doesn’t seem to care. Sometimes, you wonder if it’d be easier that way.)

When you’re getting close, you groan a bit despite not wanting to and grip his hair too hard in your hands, pulling it. He whimpers sweetly around you and closes his eyes. You’ve never come so hard from a blowjob in your life.

His pink lips drip white and you think your heart might beat out of your chest. He comes on your hand, clasped over his own, with little thrusts of his thin hips and pretty pants hitting your neck to the same rhythm. His release tastes better than the rest you’ve had.

You don’t fuck him, even though he seems disappointed, but by the time you’re home you wish you had.

**※※※**

You meet Graham before the rest of the Carpets, on your twenty-first birthday at a Roses show. Liam’s there, too, but you’re a bit fucking sick of him lately so you head upstairs, away from him. Later he tells you that he understands now, understands the music, but greater things happened to you at that show. You’re mates with a _band_ now.

It’s not long after that you’re introduced to Clint. He’s in a bright-red Hawaiian print shirt, hair smooth and rounded and falling over his eyebrows in a style that’s kind of fucking silly, but you can’t take your eyes off him. You play it cool, flicking your eyes away when they meet his, but your hand’s shaking. Those eyes stare you down a bit too much to be casual, the whole fucking night, and you’re thanking God you wore a long, loose shirt because your cock is trying its best to burst out of your trousers.

You’re fucking dying for it by the time you arrive home at half-past three; the house is dark and quiet so you climb the stairs two at a time, belt already unbuckled as you stumble into the bathroom. You barely manage to shut the door before you fall onto the closed toilet seat with your trainers still on and your jeans and boxers hanging off one ankle. The nearest bottle is conditioner and the thick haze of unfulfilled lust doesn’t let you tell yourself _this isn’t lube_ before you slick a finger up and shove it inside yourself, thinking of the first dick you ever held in your hand, and Paul Weller on Top of the Pops, and your fit year-ten maths teacher, and Clint and his poncey bowl-cut, and stupid fucking _Liam_ while you wrap your other hand around your aching cock.

It burns inside you. You push another finger in despite it, having to force it past the muscle and wiggle around on the seat until you can crook them _just_ right, biting your lips and tongue to stifle the noises that force their way out of your body. You haven’t done it this way in goddamn months, trying not to want it, to just use your cock like a normal bloke would. But it’s too fucking tempting and you’re too fucking plastered and stoned to even think not to. You don’t remember when you worked a third one in but it’s a tight stretch and what you _need._

There are tears in your eyes; you stroke your fingertips over that spot over and over, biting down so hard that sharp, syrupy blood drips out of the corner of your mouth and splatters on the bleach-white tiles, then some on your grey t-shirt. Left hand all slippery in that painfully tight part of you, the place you’re not supposed to go. _But doesn’t everybody fuckin’ do it._ Right hand uncoordinated and wet enough to make a filthy noise while it grips up and down. _But don’t we all._

Even though you know how close you are – even though your fingers fucking in and out of you kick everything up to double-speed – it still catches you off guard, and you barely manage to stifle the shameless moan that threatens to rip its way out of your lungs. Cum stains your thin t-shirt, on top of the blood you’d dripped there, some of it seeping through to your skin, and the rest runs down the side of your hand; there’s an obscene sound when your fingers slip out of your arse, and 30 seconds ago it would have had your toes curling but now it just makes you ill. Your brain aches nearly as much as your fucked-open, still-pulsing hole – _God,_ you don’t even know who you _are_ anymore _–_ and you lick up your wrist and over your fingers, even though you’re next to a roll of toilet paper on one side and a sink on the other. You’ve certainly had sweeter.

Your eyes water mutely down your flushed cheeks and even a dirty idiot like you knows you can’t wipe them away until you wash your dirty hands.

But you’re not crying, because you don’t fucking _cry_. Not ever.

It burns inside you where your fingers had been, ill-prepared and stretched too wide. Like you’re getting punished for what you’ve done. All of it, the things you’ve done and all you haven’t done, too, wished for and come over your fingers every night for. Punished. Part of you hopes you are. Your bed feels stiff and unfamiliar, and the ache between your thighs makes it impossible to lay comfortably, and Liam snores louder than he usually does.

Your dreams are just as depraved and cum-soaked as the rest of your life, and you’ll burn inside for three days after.

**※※※**

By the next month you and Clint are spending every day together, though, and snogging like teenagers just about anytime the two of you can get a minute away. He’s much taller, and much older, and pulls your hair while you straddle his lap in his tiny third-storey flat. You don’t gag when he fucks your throat for the first time, and he makes you blush too often, holding your hand in public – “just for a laugh” – and hissing in your ear _y’look fuckin’ fit tonight_ while you throw back countless pints with the band. You think his kisses taste like cigarettes and secrets.

It’s July when you finally let him do it; when you get down on his mattress on the floor and say _please, I want you_ before he takes you from behind. You realize how fucking sentimental you really are when you find yourself feeling glad Clint is the first. The hair on his chest rubs against your back and you are so goddamn glad not to be in your mam’s house, to be able to swear and moan while he strokes your leaking cock and bites at your ear. Your body lets him in easily and maybe all the times you rode your own fingers were worth it, because it doesn’t hurt a bit. He insists on using a condom and you don’t really fancy that – if you’re going to take a dick, you might as well feel _everything_ , might as well let him watch his cum drip out of you afterwards, right? – but considering he’s probably been fucking lads for the better part of the 80s, you know he’s making better decisions than you ever will.

(You think if _you_ were the one fucking some lad, you wouldn’t be able to make yourself use one. But there’s only the one lad you think about being inside of, at the end of the day, and you’ve been trying to forget him more and more lately but you still want to possess him fully and that’s why you’d _need_ to fill him up with your cum, if you ever got the chance to _have_ him like that.)

If you were someone else, you’d probably call Clint your boyfriend, and if you weren’t locked up so tight in the closet, you’d say you’re in love.

**※※※**

Liam’s not quite like any of the lads you shag. He’s not rough and manly, and he’s not demure and kind and obedient. He’s none of that, and all of it at once. He’s a monster and an angel, with long eyelashes and a trail of dark hair that disappears under his waistband, always slung just a bit too low; a stupid boy who loves fighting and kissing and stealing and playing football, who steals your shirts because he thinks they’re softer than his, who curls himself into you every time you’re weak enough to let him fall asleep in your bed. He hates music even though he doesn’t understand it, and he loves sex even though he doesn’t understand that, either.

You know him better than anyone else does and you also don’t know a goddamn thing, except that he’s the most _gorgeous_ fucking thing you’ve ever set your eyes on, tougher than any big strong man with a thick cock, prettier than any little queer boy who haunts the city centre.

**※※※**

A friend introduces you to this bird, Louise, and she’s a laugh and great to go out for a pint with, and you don’t even mind kissing her. Have to think about blokes when you fuck her, but at least it gets you hard. Clint told you he’s _bisexual_ and you are trying your hardest to make that label fit you. Louise fancies you and your mam loves her and before you know it the two of you are a couple. But you still fuck Clint on rehearsal nights and after out-of-town gigs – and of course, no matter how hard you try, you don’t forget about Liam. Not for a second.

September feels uneventful for the first three weeks. It’s still a few months before you move out of your mam’s, and the kid turns sixteen tonight so you blew off both Louise and Clint to spend it with him. He likes cocaine now and part of you doesn’t want to encourage that, but you know the stuff he’s getting from some shady mate of his is badly-cut rubbish, so you break out your own stash, and the two of you do a few too many lines and laugh a bit and drink a lot and he lays with his cheek pressed to your stomach and you don’t shove him off. But as it’s bound to, somehow it all becomes an argument. He tells you he’s just ended things with his girlfriend, bats his eyelashes and stares up at you hopefully. You know what he wants. More to the point, you know what _you_ want – but this was why you had Clint, why you had Louise. To pretend you didn’t want to have Liam instead.

You tell him _good riddance_ , that his girlfriend was a slag anyway, and it’s a stupid thing to say. He says _what’s that make Louise, then?_ and you aren’t going to let him talk like that.

“Y’know, I fuckin’ came home instead of going with her, just ‘cos you _begged_ me to be here for your birthday, you little cunt. Fuckin’ spent my money on drugs and booze for _you_ , instead of on my goddamn missus, so you better-”

He laughs bitterly, cutting you off. “Oh, don’t lie, I know you were goin’ to get fucked by your Oldham boyfriend again, weren’t you? Wanted to ride his cock while you thought about me?”

“Fuck you-”

“’Cos you’re a fuckin’ faggot, aren’t you? Go ahead, say it, ‘s’alright, I already fuckin’ know it for a fact.”

“Don’t fucking call me that. I’m warnin’ you now, Liam, if you-”

“I said it’s fuckin’ _alright_ cause fuck, you know I’m- I’ll fuckin’ go for _anyone_ who’s fit, you fucker. I don’t give a flying _shit_ if you’re a goddamn queer, fuckin’ want you so much, makes me want you so much _more_ just cos I know how much you _love_ fucking boys. You like the pretty ones, don’t you? And you think I’m fuckin’ _pretty,_ you do, I know just how bad you wanna _fuck_ me-”

He’s so close to your face now that his words are all spit and warm toothpaste-flavored breath. You know it’s over. You just can’t wait any longer.

“You want me, then, Liam? _Do_ you?”

His eyes sparkle dangerously. “You fuckin’ heard me, you cunt.”

You knew you’d give in someday, weren’t as strong as you pretended to be, but you’d always promised yourself you’d wait until you moved out of Mam’s house, at least. Preferably till he’s out of school, seventeen going on eighteen, and that was so far away that you didn’t have to think about it yet.

But it’s going to happen today. The twenty-first of September, with cloudy skies. You’re kissing your brother. You’re vaguely aware of the way he _wants_ it with every fiber of his being, wants it _all_ – there’s no way you’re gonna fuck him, not yet, but he wants anything you’ll give him and if you’re being honest, you probably you won’t be able to stop at snogging.

You pull his hair back to tilt his head, and his mouth’s already open and God, he must have been kissing anyone he could, all the time, because his tongue moves goddamn beautifully.

He’s just barely taller than you now, and you try to pretend he’s not still a kid, and you try to forget that he’s always been and always will be your little brother. All you know is that neither of you is ever going to be the same.

**※※※**

You don’t get butterflies in your stomach for Liam. Just fire in your heart. One that you can’t seem to put out all the way.

**※※※**

You kiss and kiss and kiss as much as you can, for months. Till you’re getting each other off with your hands. Then with your mouths. And he begs and begs and _begs_ for months, for you to _please_ just _fuck_ him already. You are amazed you haven’t yet.

You move into a flat in India House with Louise, and Liam surely knew this day was coming, but he still threatens to kill you for leaving him. You come back one night to gather the last couple boxes of your stuff and once you see how sad he looks, some part of you breaks, and you curl yourself around him on what used to be your bed. You nearly tell him you love him.

 _C’mon, our kid, ‘m not goin’ far. You know that._ He wipes his wet eyes – _‘course ‘m not cryin’, would never cry over_ you _, cunt_ – and straddles your lap, your cock hard already, while he sucks dark semicircles into the side of your neck. You’d told him not to do that, that Louise would see, but it only made him suck harder till the marks were even darker.

He’s extra whiny tonight. “I know you don’t- you won’t- God, just _fuck_ me, Noel, I’m fuckin’- almost seventeen, I been waitin’-” His voice suddenly changes, a bit lower now, less whiny. Smoother. His eyes get all big and his lashes seem darker. “I know… _you_ been waitin’, Noel. ‘aven’t you? C’mon, don’t you want me to make you feel good? Can make you feel so _good_ , Noely, please, want you to feel how _tight_ I am-”

If only you were a stronger person. If only he was a bit less beautiful and your lives were a bit less fucked-up already. And if only you were even capable of using words other than his name right now.

“Liam…”

“I _want_ you.”

A compromise has to be made, though. He says _almost_ seventeen, but it’s only March, which means he’s got six whole months left till his birthday. _Almost_ seventeen. He’s so fucking cheeky. Will say anything to feel your hands on his body, anywhere. You wonder, really wonder, if after tonight you’ll still be able to wait, once your fingers know how he feels. Inside. You’ve never touched him there, even on the outside; you’ve slipped just the tips of your fingers between his cheeks before as you squeezed his backside in your hands, but that’s not the same.

But it’s been too long, of course it has, you’re broken and sick and can’t resist temptation a day longer, not when he’s offering himself up on a silver platter for you. You won’t fuck him. But you need _something._

And there is a part of him in there _begging_ for you, you know there is, so you reach your hand around and push, just slightly, slotting the thin fabric of his pyjamas into his cleft and Jesus goddamn _Christ_ -

“Fuck, kid. Fuckin’- fuckin’ _warm_ , you’re fuckin’ burning up in there, aren’t you, baby…” The pet name comes out too awkward, all disjointed, nearly three syllables – you’re not used to saying it, not even to girls. Not in bed, at least. You’ve never been great at dirty talk. Preferred to listen.

The kid’s got more than enough words for the both of you, though. And he’s just saying _c’mon, please, yes_ over and over now – and he’s reaching back and gripping your left hand, pulling it closer to his body –

“ _Noel,_ mmm…”

_I’m gonna feel that. Without any stupid fabric covering it. Hot. Liam’s skin. Somewhere no one’s been. Well, maybe._

“Kid… kid… has- has anyone ever, ever touched-”

“No, you _dick_ \- y’know what, c’mon, you’re too fucking slow tonight.” You’re nearly paralyzed in disbelief as he tugs at his pants, pulling them down at the back so his arse is exposed and then pressing your shaking hand _in_.

He’s sweaty there and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You brush your middle finger against his tight hole, gently, and you didn’t expect it to be fucking _wet –_ you inhale harshly while he drops his head against your shoulder and moans so soft and sweet.

“Liam, _fuck_.”

“Feel how much I want you? Do you? Made myself ready for you. Jus’ in case you finally wanted to… to…”

“Shit, Liam… Jesus, did you…”

He turns his face and kisses your neck all sloppy. The same way he feels against your fingers. “Course I did, been fuckin’ myself _stupid_ on me fingers all the fuckin’ time, since I could tell you wanted me back. So much, Noel. Since I was fuckin’ fourteen – wanted to be ready for you…”

Oh, he’s a fucking dream. You’ve _never_ fucked a girl who talks _this_ fucking dirty- or a bloke, for that matter, and by now you’ve been with more of them than birds. But your baby brother, already taller than you, skinny but becoming a man more every day, with lean muscles in his biceps and his legs… he is somehow better than them _all_.

Liam bites down on your neck and sucks and somehow moans at the same time while you stroke back and forth against his opening. You are mesmerized by how goddamn _soaked_ he is. You try to memorize the way it feels, how the skin is puckered and the sensation as it clenches a bit, opening like his body wants to pull you right inside.

“C’mon, Noel, got myself all nice ‘n’ clean for you…”

He’s occupying himself with making a mess of bruises on your neck in between words, and he whines a bit as you pull your hand away. You suck your index and middle fingers – real quick, before he notices what you’re doing – and then without a word push the first finger inside.

“Fuck! Fuck, yes, yes-” Immediately, he’s grinding back, trying to get you in even farther.

Inside he’s _so_ much hotter than you could ever have imagined, even though you’ve done this before, with other boys, boys less pretty and less filthy and less _related_ to you. He’s soft in there, too, and his body grips your finger tight but still lets it in so easily. He’s definitely been preparing himself as much as he said he was, that’s for sure. Which, really, is a blessing. Makes you feel slightly better, that you’re not going to hurt him, physically at least.

He feels 5505 degrees. _The sun shines out of our behinds._ God, you’re pathetic.

“More, I need _more._ ”

“Where’s your manners?”

“ _Fuck_ manners.”

“What d’you want. Tell me. Fuckin’ filthy little thing.”

“Want you to fuck me with those, shove those fingers in. I can take three so easy, Noel, swear I can, been takin’ three for, like, a _year_ now. More. Could take your cock in right now, suck it first and get it nice ‘n’ wet, wouldn’t even need lube-”

You regret asking him. You pray you don’t come before you’ve even taken off your briefs. “Liam, c’mon, that’s-”

“I’ve taken four before, y’know. All by myself. Thas’ bigger than a dick, right. Hurt a little, but it stretched me out. Was so fuckin’ angry you weren’t _mine_ , weren’t the one makin’ me feel good, jus’ wanted to know how it looked. How loose it was. I couldn’t see it, only felt it…”

“ _Fuck,_ kid.” You can’t wait anymore; he whimpers all drawn-out and sweet when you shove your middle and ring fingers in without hesitation. He really _can_ take them, and so perfectly. “Shut the fuck up, let me- gonna fuck you with my fuckin’ fingers. Make you come.”

“Fuck, yeah… want you to stretch me out, wanna see your face when you see how loose you made me.” The kid’s gonna drive you goddamn crazy. He kisses you quickly, one two three four five times, then whispers against your cheek, “I been thinkin’ about somethin’ else, too, Noel…”

“What’s that, angel.” You don’t ignore his tiny moan when he hears you call him that.

“Have you ever thought about… _oh_ , thought about- puttin’ your mouth down there, your tongue, an’- an’ fuckin’-”

“God. Just… Liam- _God_.”

He laughs at you, still grinding his arse back so your fingers are even deeper in him, until they bottom out and your knuckles press against him. “Yeah, call me _God_ , Noel, turns me on-”

Stupid little cunt. “Bein’ cheeky, are we, now? Didn’t anyone ever tell you to respect your elders, you little slag?” You shove your fingers in roughly, nailing his prostate dead-on. He groans and he’s not laughing anymore, just panting. “Or am I gonna need to spank some sense into you?”

(You don’t think you could. Not yet, at least. But it’s intriguing, and it kind of explains why the both of you get flushed and kind of aroused nearly every time you fight.)

“ _Noel,_ ‘m not a _slag…_ ohfuckyesyes _…_ ” _So you are, then._

 “’s in your best interest to do what I fuckin’ say. You gonna _behave_? Gonna be a good boy for me? Y’know I’ll take care of you. Gotta be real fuckin’ good, though.” You can’t fucking believe the words are even leaving your mouth, and you’ve never done that whole roleplay authority thing before but it feels so _right_ here and you can feel how Liam loves it. He’s getting your chin all messy with his sweet sticky Liam-spit.

“Gonna be good, Noel. I’m, I’ll, I’ll make you feel so good, jus’ want you, wanted you since I was fuckin’ _twelve_ , Noely. I… I want you to, just… oh…” You groan at that which probably just earned you a lifetime in hell but right now it doesn’t matter. You have heaven grinding on your lap already.

“Liam… fuckin’ _stupid_ little bastard- fuckin’ drive me crazy, you do. _Tell_ me.” You’re merciless, now, not caring how hard your fingers are shoving in. You have to stop yourself from forcing in a fourth.

“Ahh, ‘s too rough, fuck-”

Whining, he tugs your hand out of him. His fucking hole must have a mind of its own, trying to suck you back in, _desperately,_ as your fingers leave his body and it turns you on so much you can practically hear your dick screaming _let me out let me out let me out._

Not time for that yet, though. You’re gonna draw this out as long as you possibly can.

“Too dry now, Noely, you fuckin’ _know_ I can’t get wet like that… need you to… _you_ gotta get me ready, y’know what I mean?”

You know. Oh, you _know._ “Say it, little fuckin’ tease.”

His face is in the crook of your neck, lips swollen and you can feel them curling into a smile even as he speaks. “You gonna lick me there, Noel? Gonna make me _drip_?”

“Jesus _Christ_.” You drag him closer so his half-covered pelvis is pressed firmly against your cock.

“No, my name’s Liam.”

“ _Fuck_ you.” It’s always gonna be some sort of back-and-forth between you two, you realize, and that’s alright, that’s how the two of you have always been. Because you care enough to shout at him for hours. Anything to hear him get all worked up, his voice go high. “Gonna eat your fuckin’- d’you want me to eat your fuckin’ _cunt_ -”

“Noel, _Jesus_ fuckin’- d’you-”

You think about him being your sister and it’s not quite right, because you want your _brother_ , but the thought still makes your heart race. “Yeah, ‘cos you’re so pretty, y’know- like a fuckin’ bird-”

“Only bird you’d ever wanna fuck, then.”

Your mind suddenly conjures up an image of Liam, hair so long it nearly touches his shoulders, long legs in sheer black nylons and a tight little miniskirt barely covering his sweet arse –

“ _No._ Shut up.” You’re blushing so much your face feels as hot as he did inside. You don’t know why it turns you on. _Liam’s cunt._ Fuck. It’s so fucking filthy, just like _him._

“Nah. You like fuckin’ boys. You _love_ it. D’you love their holes, Noely? Yeah?” _Such a goddamn tease._ “You wanna taste my tight arse, don’t you. Push your face in, _suck_ on it, fuck yeah.” No sixteen-year-old should even _know_ how to talk this dirty. And whether it’s a bit overdone or not, it still does a lot of disgusting things to you, and the way he looks in the dim light just pushes it over the edge, takes a stupid teenager and makes him into a fuckable creature. But still sweet and mischievous; looking so innocent but really so _dirty._ And _yours,_ most importantly. You’ll own a bit of him forever, you think.

“Get on your fucking back. _Now_.”

(You’re going to come if he doesn’t. You’re almost sure of it.)

“You’re gonna love how it feels to get me wet, Noel, I can _tell._ Even gonna like the way I taste.” He’s _growling_ the words at you, lying on his back with his knees propped up and falling open wide, licking his lips. “Fuck me with that stupid fuckin’ tongue. Fucking _open_ me _up_.”

Your brain falls right out of your head as he kicks off his pyjama pants, reaching down and pushing two of his _own_ fucking fingers inside _._ It’s a bit dark in the room and you’re dying to _see_ it for the first time. You can tell just by watching him how tight he still is, and when he removes his fingers and pulls one of his cheeks to the side with slick fingertips, he clenches open and closed, moaning, shadows clinging to the curves of his body. He begs for you so shamelessly, _Noel, please, c’mon._ It’s so obscene you almost want to tell him to stop.

Shaking now, you can hardly stand. Feels like all your blood’s rushed straight to your dick. You can see it even better as you fall down on the bed and pull him open all the way before you’ve even thought twice. _Fuck,_ you hadn’t even thought about how _pink_ he’d be down there. Smoother than you but still hairy, the way some of the prettier lads you’d fucked around with were. Guess that’s your “type”, then. His hole is even more tempting now that you’ve actually seen it.

He’s fucking _pulsing_ for you.

“Oh, I’m gonna fuckin’ _devour_ you, you fuckin’ bastard.” Your mouth’s too dry so you lean up and steal some spit right out of his mouth. “Fuckin’ tight little hole.”

“Go on. Want you t’ make a fuckin’ mess.”

You can see it in your mind, now, so you just give in. He’s a mess already, anyway. And so are you.

**※※※**

You last three months after this – three _excruciating_ months – before caving and finally taking what’s yours, giving him what’s his.

Three months; thirteen blowjobs, eleven mutual wanks, eight times your fingers stretched him wide, six times he swallowed down all your cum, five you licked up his. You’d rimmed him four times, fucked his throat as hard as you could three times, and twice, you’d slotted your dick up against the cleft of his pretty arse and pretend-fucked him till you left a mess on his lower back.

Tonight, though – tonight, you’re going to finally put all that bullshit to rest, quit the fucking around.

You’re gonna make love to him.

The both of you are desperate for it after only three minutes of your fingers inside him. _Need it now, Noel. Wanna ride you._ It’s a good idea, will let you see his face, let him decide how hard and fast he gets it, save you the work of thrusting. Give him a bit of control, then, even though you both know damn well _you’re_ the one in charge.

He scoffs when you ask him if he wants you to use a condom. _Fuck no._ You’re glad.

Your fingernails draw blood on his skinny hip as he works himself down on your cock, probably harder than you’ve ever been before. He fits you goddamn perfectly, like his hole was cast from a mould of your dick, created to take you just perfectly. His chubby fingers press against your chest where you’re just starting to grow hair, nails clean and trimmed as always. You can smell the cologne he’s put on, nicked from the department store, and it makes your heart ache with love even as he rolls his hips and grinds back onto you, that he’d made himself all pretty and sweet for your first time, almost like laying rose petals on the bed.

The lights are off. He whines that his thighs are burning so you tip him over and push his knees to his chest, suck on his tiny pink nipples while he keens softly and whispers how he loves you. If it were a movie, he might be the prom queen getting defiled by an older boy, not even her date – the _wrong_ one, the one she’s not supposed to end up with. His ankles bounce against your back every time you push back inside and you are shivering at the sensation of your balls hitting his skin again and again, full and ready.

You’re gonna knock up the prom queen tonight.

He squeezes his eyes shut and groans endlessly as he gets closer to coming. “God, yes, Noel. Fuck, _harder._ Fucking get me off, _please,_ you cunt…”

You’re so, so close, just need that little bit from him to push you right over the edge. Your voice is shaking and you hear two steady beating hearts as you breathe out, _You can do better than that, can’t you… c’mon, what’s the filthiest word you know?_

And Liam gasps shakily and looks up at you and whispers _Brother_ and you let go, fucking six spurts of cum inside him and thrusting hard to make sure it gets in there _deep._ He sobs as his tight hole clenches around you and his cum stains both your chests.

You kiss him slowly without tongue while he grips the sweaty hair at the back of your neck, growing longer every day. Neither of you can stop shaking and you couldn’t count the minutes you spend with your spent cock still inside him.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ he spits into your mouth; it’s open now and he forces his tongue inside. You suck on it, hard, till he’s whimpering.

He tastes like your DNA.


End file.
